


The Friendly Glow and Softer Flame

by achray



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 21:52:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achray/pseuds/achray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little fic for Burns Night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Friendly Glow and Softer Flame

**Author's Note:**

> In honour of Robbie Burns and the current British weather, a Burns Night in 221B. I was going to cook a proper Burns supper for friends, but instead I decided to drink whiskey alone and write this. I have not even read it over, so apologies for the mistakes. Enjoy.

John frowned at his reflection in the mirror. There was no disguising it, he felt like a prize twit. And the ruffled shirt he’d worn to Harry and Clara’s wedding as part of the outfit, about a century ago, had lost two of its buttons and was looking a bit the worse for wear. He took it off and put on a plain white T-shirt and black V-neck. That was certainly better, though it maybe gave more of an impression that he might wear this get-up for fun, while campaigning for a yes vote on independence and watching the football and Braveheart simultaneously, presumably. What the hell had Harry been thinking? What the hell had he been thinking, drinking three glasses too many of Molly’s Chardonnay and being persuaded into this nonsense?  

He looked at his watch: shit, he needed to stop faffing about and head out, or he’d never have time to pick up an extra bottle of whiskey on the way over. He looked at himself one more time, pursing his lips, and then headed down to face Sherlock’s unholy glee.

All Sherlock did was look up from his book and raise one eyebrow politely at him when he entered the sitting room, and John still blushed. He went over to the fridge to take out the posh desserts he was bringing over, safely encased in several carrier bags. Behind his back, Sherlock cleared his throat.

“Very fetching,” he said. “Though perhaps an odd fashion choice for this evening.”

“It’s Burns’ Night, as you bloody well know,” said John. “I told you we were invited to Molly’s for haggis and the whole nine yards. _And_ I told you I lost a bet about wearing this when I was playing poker with her and Greg last weekend. You were invited too.”

“Sheeps’ intestines,” said Sherlock. “With root vegetables. Can’t think why I declined.” He shuddered delicately. “But in fact I was referring to the weather. Have you looked out of the window in the last couple of hours?”

John frowned at him. He crossed to the window and opened the curtains, to be greeted with swirling snowflakes, the street below eerily quiet and already coated with a thin layer of white.

“Oh, bloody hell,” he said. “How am I going to get across London in this?”

“Are you referring to the snow, or – “

John glared. Sherlock blinked innocently, and turned a page of his book, looking down. “You’re not, I should say,” he observed. “Overground’s cancelled, tubes are a bit dodgy and the buses are definitely off. Unless you plan to walk four miles there and four back in a blizzard, with _bare legs_ – “

“Yes, all right, I get it,” said John. “Hell. Molly’s going to be upset, if no-one makes it. I’ll just – " He located his phone on the table and dialled, watching the mesmerizing pattern of snowflakes.

“Oh, John!” said Molly. He could hear voices and clattering in the background. “Don’t worry, I saw the trains weren’t running, there’s no way you’ll be able to get here.”

“Yeah, I’m really sorry. I didn’t even know it’d started snowing till just now. Did the others make it OK?”

“All except you,” said Molly apologetically. “They’re all south London, you know, so most of them just walked. Five centimetres at least tonight, the forecast’s saying! It’s amazing. I hope it stays.”

“Mmm,” said John. He’d never been a big fan of snow, and that was before spending a winter trying to negotiate icy streets with a cane.

“Anyway, Fiona’ll be sorry to miss you,” said Molly, lowering her voice, conspiratorial. “She looks great. And we were all looking forward to seeing you in your kilt!”

“Yes, well,” said John. He could feel Sherlock listening in. “Maybe another time. Pass on my apologies.”

“Will do. Look, I’ve got to go, the dumpling’s boiling over – really sorry, John, but hope you and Sherlock have a lovely night in.”

Sherlock snorted. John hung up and sighed. Fiona was one of the more attractive of Molly’s friends, and there’d been a definite hint of flirtation when he’d met them all in the pub.

“She’s not actually a fashion designer, you know,” said Sherlock. “Fiona. She did a degree in fashion but she’s been temping for the last five years.”

“I couldn’t care less about what she does,” said John. “She was nice, plus she had bloody amazing legs.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “I’ve never understood the fascination with legs,” he said. He looked speculatively at John’s legs, as though sizing them up for attractiveness, and then down at his own.

“Stop it,” said John. “And don’t tell me anything else about Fiona, I liked her.” He sighed again, and went to slump in his chair. He supposed he ought to get up and change, put on his jeans, maybe see if there was anything crap on TV to watch or download a film. There wasn’t much food in the house, either, he might have to go out to Tesco’s. Hardly the Friday night he’d been hoping for.

“All dressed up and nowhere to go,” said Sherlock. John looked up, ready to be angry, but Sherlock didn’t look mocking. The corner of his mouth quirked as John met his eyes.

“There’s a bottle of 16 year old Lagavulin in my bedside cabinet,” he said. “If you’re so determined to celebrate the birth of Scotland’s bard in traditional style.”

“I’m only half Scottish,” said John defensively. “This was Molly’s idea.”

“Well, if you don’t want the whiskey – " said Sherlock.

“No, I want it all right,” said John. “Light the fire, will you?”

***

Surprisingly, for once Sherlock had done what he was told, and since laying fires was one of his more useful household skills, John was able to reach a pleasant state of fifth or maybe seventh glass drunkenness while lying on the hearthrug, with one side slowly reaching an uncomfortable heat, the small crackles of the fire in his ears and a pleasing view out of the window of snowflakes twirling in the London sky. He hadn’t bothered changing, Sherlock had already seen him, after all, and the kilt was pretty comfortable in the warmth of the fire.

Sherlock had condescended to put down his book and have a small whiskey, and then another one or two or four. He’d slid off his chair too, and was leaning against it, legs drawn up, tilting his glass this way and that in the firelight.

“Tell me some more,” said John, idly admiring the way Sherlock’s profile caught the glow of the flames.

“Not after you said my accent was execrable.”

“I think you’ll find,” said John, pointing his glass at Sherlock, “that I never used that word.”

“You laughed,” said Sherlock.

“Yes, well, you may speak fourteen fucking languages or whatever, but Scots definitely isn’t one of them.” John struggled up on his elbows a bit, the better to get more whiskey into his mouth, then subsided, balancing the glass on his chest.

“’Is there a man, whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer,  Yet runs, himself, life's mad career’”, said Sherlock, almost absently, gazing at the fire.  “That was Burns, too. He could write the finest Augustan verse, if he thought occasion demanded. Though as I recall that poem ends by advocating ‘prudent, cautious self-control’, which given the circumstances of his life we might take as ironic.”

“How do you know all this?,” said John, marveling. “All this – poetry.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Picked it up,” he said. “You never know when these things might come in useful.”

“Oh,” said John. “Like if you were – undercover in Scotland investigating a murder in a, a Burns club, or something.”

“Like tonight,” said Sherlock, meeting his eyes.  

John swallowed. He sat up again, took too large a mouthful of whiskey, and choked slightly. When he recovered, Sherlock was still watching him. John thought he could see sparks in his eyes, but it might have been just the whiskey haze. 

Sherlock dropped his gaze, and then deliberately ran the back of a hand from John’s left knee up to his thigh, just under the rucked-up material of the kilt. It was a light touch, but every hair on John’s legs stood on end, and he shivered.

“You’re roasting yourself,” said Sherlock, lightly, taking his hand back.

“I,” said John. His voice came out embarrassingly husky. “Yes, I am a bit – too hot.” He moved up a bit more, up and back, leaning against his own armchair. It was true, he was boiling. He put down his glass and pulled his jumper over his head, taking some of his T-shirt with it. When he emerged, Sherlock was staring at his chest: he looked up to meet John’s eyes, and then deliberately away.

John licked his lips. Prudent, cautious, self-control, he thought. The air in the room felt heavy on his skin, full of shifting currents. He could crawl across the space between them and kiss Sherlock, who might open his mouth for him, who would taste of good whiskey and who knew what else; he could press him down into the hearthrug and see what would happen; he was just drunk enough to do it, he was leaning forward slightly, about to make his move –

Sherlock stood up abruptly, using his chair as leverage. 

“I think I might be slightly drunk,” he said.

John looked up at him. The moment had dissipated, fading like all the others. He wasn’t going to do it, but at that moment he still felt a great, drunken affection for Sherlock, who’d given up whatever he’d been going to do that evening to drink with John and recite poetry for him, and who sometimes looked at him like – like that, the way he just had.

“You should eat,” he said, relaxing back comfortably. The snow was still falling, even thicker, if possible. “There are two lemon tarts in the fridge, we should eat those, sell-by date’s tomorrow. Or today, rather.” It was going to be a snow day, nothing to do but stay in bed, reading the hysterical weather reports from across Britain and eating leftover lemon tarts.

Sherlock crossed his arms and looked out at the snow as well. “I can try out some theories about footprints in the morning,” he said, sounding pleased.

“Sounds like fun,” said John, smiling up at him. Sherlock looked back at him, and smiled in turn, tentative.

“Thanks,” said John. “You know, for the whiskey, and the poetry and everything.”

Sherlock’s smiled widened. “Well, after it took you an hour to put that on,” he said, gesturing. “Least I could do.”

“Maybe I’ll wear it again for you, sometime,” said John, half-joking, though only half.

“Maybe,” said Sherlock, unreadable. “I’ll await the event. Now – lemon tarts?”

“Yes,” said John, standing up a little unsteadily, just about ready to resume normality again.

 


End file.
